/lit/ - Literature

mors mihi lucrum, whispered mother Mary. Dark was the night,
Where I found her frightful figure bound bloodied on a mahogany slab
6 inch nails driven surgically into her navel a/ eyes. Her womb was mangled, her breasts severed.
She adorns 3 brass ornaments: A bull. A flame. A child.
1 last protest from a lost Goddess of Babylon, divine mother whose confraternity birthed empires:
"You're already dead," she said unto me, as her last breath whimpered languidly into eternity:
I screeched, a/ beseeched for passersby, my voice rang like some midnight lullaby;
Wo, nary a hearing ear nor seer
Her bluegreen eyes which once betrayed the vibrance of crimson moons are glassy smog
Her auburn lavender hair once were wheat fields, now grey matter's splattered in the fog
Dark was the night when Mother Mary spoke the truth,
When her soft silent soliloquy fell upon a blind man's gaze
And her vehement prayer combusted a/ extinguished like an old man's unspoken dreams
Of a home that was once his, once theirs
Then given away to strangers.
I awoke to the scent of scarlet steel
And as I rose into the cold, damp fields of your mourning,
I shook a/ cringed like a wounded dog;
Limping from alleyway to alleyway ...
And you danced twirling wearing purple curls,
Woven in lavender ribbons;
Tied off with crimson ragged cloth ...
Your lips flinch and betray what your eyes won't -
Your yellow sundress gleems in green sheets -
Like charcoal-covered diamonds in a mound of shit ...
I am your battered grey hound,
Your mongrel of decay;
Loitering in your hallowed halls,
In search of meatscraps.
A silver apple scent is lingering in the air -
I hear your whiskey scoff;
You wear six begonia gardens,
Three in your hair a/ three in your eyes -
A thread of crimson strobe lights flicker with the dawn.
Circling the drain with a slothful, dripping crown
And I hear that wounded dog whimper ...
You dance twirling into the darkness of an old pauper's hut;
And I watched as you left me here.